Maybe read this one first.

October 25, 2010 § Leave a comment


 

Originally written October 15th

And you talk when you’re drunk like your writing it up for an article.”

I’ll be your Friend – Bright Eyes

I have made it out of New York in one piece. I would love to tell you some beautifully crafted story about how I made it out of the hotel in a Steve McQueen style escape except without all that troublesome barbed wire. Unfortunately I cannot, I simply walked out the door leaving any feelings of guilt inside. I had developed an extremely poor writing style. I was, and still am, writing as a stream of consciousness, as if I’m having a conversation with the reader. Also I am writing every single thought that enters my brain, writing like a drunk speaking, it’s not a healthy practise. I apologise for the rag-tag start, I see writing a blog like meeting someone and with a sober mind when meeting someone I would not have harassed you with all my opinions on things you don’t care about.

I apologise. I am home, to clear my mind and clean my blood. Home to me is a village in the middle of nowhere and for those interested in where nowhere is located just south of Oxford, England. It was a beautiful place, so slow and steady and stuck in its ways. No post office or shops anymore but two pubs, how very British. It’s far away from the bright lights. It’s surrounded for miles by fields and there is no light pollution. The other night a car fire under a telegraph pole had put the power down for 17 hours. Not a working light bulb in six miles. This is a far cry for New York City. I had to make the most of it as soon I am hitting the road again. I’m not sure where I am heading yet.

It comes to a point where those with good upbringings, stable parents, piece of mind, start to damn there own surroundings. They hate they fact that they don’t find themselves having the monster of poverty driving them on to their true potential, that they have too much strength to twist themselves on drugs to find themselves hunched over a typewriter in an upturned hotel room furiously typing everything they ever wanted. True potential is only reached through four steps: love, hate, overwhelming pressure and unstoppable determination. It is rare that any of these should be found in the middle class, especially in modern generations.

I have slipped into another habit in my 22nd year of life. I don’t have a fixed base for my journalism, I do no real research for a story, I don’t dig about in famous peoples lives, they aren’t my business. I haven’t done my time at county fairs and cook offs building a reputation for myself. I just wonder the globe, waiting for things that are exciting to happen. It is a ridiculous life; luckily I had caught the eye of the editor of a magazine called “Clean Escapes”, basically that rag that makes the waiting rooms of travel agents. But it’s a beautiful life, sent around the world, most expenses paid to stay in some hotel, 500 odd words and I’m set. Like most of the western world I was blessed, but I was not happy. In a world of Google Earth and the Internet we are seriously lacking in mad explorers and pioneers, I am just a fleeting and fading attempt to tip the scales.

Newspapers far too often side with victims. What I mean is, if there’s one thing that we should have learned from Hollywood blockbusters it’s that the people love a fugitive. They love the bad boy Robin Hood style character who is a victim only to his personal circumstances. How many films have focused on the victim? Well, a few, and they almost all won Oscars but they didn’t engage the reader in the same fashion as a fugitive.

They say that the field of journalism you specify in is the one you failed doing. The reason they say this is because it’s true, the areas I most prefer writing about is music and sport, as a young person I dabbled in both. But the failure to have an real talent in either lead me only to write about those that do. Depressing really. But at least your there associated with what you love. An ex-girlfriend of mine once told me “Do anything Simon, Just don’t get a desk-job”.

My body is as clean as it’s was going to get, I was just twiddling my thumbs waiting for my orders for the magazine. My hope is a major city, European hopefully or Australia or America, in fact I’m not fussy at all. I just want to get gone.

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